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Show US' Li 1 -'iirn-a 1 bolt's of An Innitrvnl ISytlimdi r : The Wirt'lt-s: All the grumbling you hear about the Army's morale being way down to here is German cooking. Cen'l Marshall, Army Chief of StarT, made that warning in his speech. Its all tricked up to disturb the soldiers' loved ones, and it's surefire with the stupider Congressmen Con-gressmen . . . Clark Gable's nitty via a Red Cross show: "Our ancestors an-cestors lived in log cabins and sod huts to establish a gov't based on the theory of 'We, the People,' and not 'I, the State' "... Many of the afternoon dramas contain some of the theater's best players. Why don't the sponsors also try to hire a better grade of writers? . . . One place where a writer is needed but needed is on the "single" shows. The patter the announcer and artist swap between numbers always sounds as if they'd lost the script and are covering up the wait .' . . One headliner explained the reason he never used guest stars is because be-cause he's never met a star who knew how to behave like a guest. The Story Tellers: Correspondent James Young, who was jailed by the Japs for reporting what he saw in China, gives them real reason to holler copper in a Reader's Digest hoticle. In "Japan Risks Destruction," Destruc-tion," Young should raise lots of blood pressure in Tokyo . . . Clarke Robinson, profiling Admiral Harold R. Stark in World Digest, reports that the present Chief of Naval Operations Op-erations made his first hit with FDR by defying him ... No punch-puller punch-puller is Time, which describes publisher pub-lisher Douglas M. Stewart of Commentator, Com-mentator, to wit and to wow: "stocky, heavy-lidded Boston aesthete aes-thete with a taste for antiques and Aryans" .... Collier's editorialist (is that you Maury?) for Nov. 13 has a punchy crack ... He calls Nazi-occupied Yurrop: "The New Disorder." When the news first came through that those 95 refugees from Nazi-land Nazi-land had been refused permission to land in Argentina, and faced the fate of being returned to concentration concen-tration camps, Selwyn James, a scrappy Britisher on PM, boldly called Sir Gerald Campbell, chief of the British Press service. He urged him to have the refugees admitted to British Trinidad. It would be excellent ex-cellent publicity for the British, James said, aside from being a decent de-cent and not too unlikely act of humanity. hu-manity. He got a polite brush-off . . . The gloomy ship started for Europe, and Rep. Sol Bloom rushed in protest to the British Embassy. He was turned down, too , . . When that happened, cocky newspaperman newspaper-man James got Campbell on the phone again, and ranted and roared for half an hour ... It must have been tophole as far as accents and persuasion go . . . Because, finally, Campbell promised to have another go at the Embassy , . . Result: The refugee ship has changed course again, and British Trinidad will be at least a temporary haven for those ninety-five pushed-around outcasts. Ed Howe, the late editor of an Atchison, Kansas, daily, was always envied for his serene outlook on life . . . Celebrated writers read his stuff and wished they had his peace of mind . . . Now his son, Gene, writes in a magazine: "My father was the most wretchedly unhappy man I ever knew" ... At the same time, H. L. Mencken, the Baltimore Bal-timore journalist, was hollering his head off. People were clucks, he yelped, and the world was a hoose-gow hoose-gow . , . Now, in his fascinating memoirs, "Newspaper Days," Mencken confesses he was always as happy as a kid with his first long pants, all day long. Midtown Vignette: The other middle-of-the-nightime, a Canadian soldier went into Hamburger Heaven Heav-en and wolf'd about five hamburger sandwiches, so hungry was he . . . As he went to the cashier's desk, he was told: "Oh, I couldn't think of taking money from you. You're doing do-ing something to make it a better world, and all I can do is wish I could. Sorry, no money from a soldier. sol-dier. And whenever you are in the neighborhood again, please come here and eat all you want!" . . . The Canadian said he'd like it lots more if he could pay his way . . . "I have the money!" he said, displaying dis-playing a wad . . . "Sorry," said the cashier, "wouldn't think of it!" . . . The Canadian is one of the wealthiest men in the world. His name is Duncan McMartin. Has about 40 million smackers. Typewriter Ribbons: Pete Smith's: An eye like a cafeteria cashier's . . . John Barrymore's: Happiness sne3ks in through a door you didn't know you left open . . John Galsworthy's: One's eyes are what one is, one's mouth is what one becomes . . . Ben Hecht's: His smile appeared to wear a little crutch . . . Elizabeth Curtis': He panthered up and down the room . . . Olin Miller's: A woman never knows what dress she doesn't want until she buys it. |